


Stranded

by MizJoely



Series: I Wish You Would Write... [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:33:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6516862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>anonymous asked: I wish you would write a fic where Molly and Sherlock get stranded on a deserted island and must survive together until help arrives. They drive each other crazy at first but eventually grow close and whoops look at that, they're in love now. </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

When the plane went down, Molly Hooper was fully prepared to die. She was so prepared that she turned to Sherlock, sitting next to her, and told him she loved him, that she’d always loved him, had never stopped loving him, and never would. Then she’d kissed him, holding tightly to his face, eyes screwed shut, heart pounding with terror.

The problem wasn’t that he’d kissed her back with just as much passion and fervor, his hands gripping her face just as tightly as hers had his. The problem wasn’t even that she thought she heard him murmuring that he loved her, too, although it was hard to tell over the screaming of the engines as their small plane dove oceanward.

The problem was, they didn’t die. Oh, everyone else on the plane died - the pilot, the co-pilot, the three other passengers, the two members of the cabin crew - but she and Sherlock didn’t.

Not that Molly would be unhappy about surviving a plane crash under normal circumstances - and certainly her first reaction upon regaining consciousness was relief that she had, indeed, woken up alive and relatively uninjured. She was even pleased that Sherlock had survived, even if she had to set his broken arm for him and improvise a sling out of her skirt.

But what sort of cruel fate would make them the only survivors after she’d done something so foolish as to openly declare her love for him?

Those were her thoughts on the worst of the days that followed, when she allowed despair and self-pity to overwhelm her. When Sherlock was bitingly sarcastic bordering on cruel to her. She knew it was the pain of his arm, his rage at the situation itself and nothing to do with her personally, but she couldn’t help wondering if he was deliberately making sure she harbored no illusions about that desperate kiss and her equally desperate declaration of love...and also ensuring that she never had the time or the inclination to ask him about the words she’d thought he’d spoken.

As the days turned into weeks and weeks into a month, she managed to put all of that behind her. In truth, she knew it had been easier to focus on her emotional turmoil rather than the grim facts that the two of them were the only survivors after their plane had been blown off-course by a storm, and that no one was likely to find them anytime soon, and that they’d had to bury - well, she’d had to since Sherlock’s arm made it impossible for him to help - the seven who hadn’t been so lucky, who’d been killed on impact.

She was sitting in front of those seven graves with their pathetic hand-made crosses, having laid new garlands of tropical blooms on each one just as she did every day since covering the last body with soil. Her hands were still a mass of calluses and open sores, and she was grateful for the tube of ointment she always carried in her handbag. The last thing she needed was for infection to set in.

Speaking of which...with a sigh she rose to her knees in preparation for standing and trudging back to the small camp she and Sherlock had made out of pieces of the plane combined with small saplings and an experimental matting of palm fronds. They’d dragged all the personal belongings, food, water, and anything else useful that they could to the edges of the jungle that infringed on the beach, found a source of fresh water not too far off, and done their best to explore their new (hopefully, please God, temporary) home...and spent the rest of the time waiting.

Waiting and bickering. They’d had a proper row earlier in the day; Sherlock had stomped off to the stream to refill their plastic bottles, and she’d gone to the gravesite after gathering armfuls of white flowers - Plumeria, she thought, although she was hazy about most tropical blooms except orchids and hibiscus - to try and meditate her way to a semblance of calm.

However, just as she’d brought her feet under her, she heard an unexpected sound and turned to see Sherlock standing awkwardly under the shade of a palm tree. In one hand he held two water bottles by their capped tops, and resting atop his broken arm was...a pile of flowers? “I, er, thought I might make a contribution to the memorial,” he said as she just stared at him.

Finally she realized he was waiting for something, and nodded as she finished her aborted movements and stood up. “Um, yes, of course, please,” she said, gesturing toward the seven low mounds. “Oh! Let me help!” she added as he moved toward her. She reached for the flowers, then changed her mind and grabbed for the water bottles, causing everything to drop to the ground. “Sorry!” she exclaimed in chagrin, once again falling to her knees in order to rescue the scattered - and now slightly squashed - blossoms.

“No, it’s fine,” he replied, also getting on his knees. As they both reached for the same water bottle, their hands touched, and Molly felt a blush forming on her cheeks that had nothing to do with either the heat of the day or the embarrassment she felt at her clumsiness. She started to pull away, only to feel Sherlock’s fingers tightening on hers. “Molly,” he said, his voice low and intense. “Please. Look at me.”

She slowly raised her eyes to meet his, and was shocked to see a red flush spreading across his elegant cheekbones. “Oh, Sherlock! Are you feverish?” she demanded, reaching up and placing a hand on his forehead. “Oh God, I should have checked you out sooner, you should be resting, not running around...”

“I don’t have a fever,” he snapped, reaching up and pulling her hand down. But he didn’t let it go, kept it trapped in his hold. He was so close that she could practically count the amber flecks in his eyes as he stared at her. “I’m not feverish, the arm is healing well, I am trying very hard to make amends for my poor behavior since we crashed. That’s all.”

“Oh,” she whispered, then blushed even harder at the layers of misunderstanding she’d placed on his actions. “It’s fine, we’ve both been on edge. Hard not to be. It’s all...it’s fine,” she repeated somewhat desperately, wishing he’d let her hand go, wishing he wasn’t so close that all she would have to do would be to lean forward just the smallest bit in order to kiss him.

That would never do. He’d be angry and upset all over again, and this was the first truly civil conversation they’d had since regaining consciousness in the wreckage of the plane and she absolutely didn’t want to spoil it.

As she started to pull away, however, he scowled harder. “Not finished,” he said in a growl. “I didn’t mean ‘that’s all’ as in, I was done explaining. I just meant the flowers.” He glanced down briefly at the wilting blooms jumbled around them in a white heap. “That was to make amends. I also want to kiss you, if you’ll just stay still long enough for me to do so.”

“If this is about what happened on the plane, what I said...”

“What we both said,” he corrected her. Confirming that impossible memory. Molly sucked in a deep breath at the revelation that she had actually heard what she thought she’d heard, but before she could say anything, Sherlock rushed on. “I meant it, Molly, and I know you did, so can we please stop fighting and just...admit it?”

“Admit what?” she asked quietly. Needing to hear the words, spoken aloud by him, in the proper order, with no threat of immediate death looming over them.

“Fine,” he said impatiently. “I love you. You love me. Now will you for God’s sake kiss me?”

“Yeah, kiss him, Molly, so we can get the two of you back to London!”

They turned at the sound of that unexpected and oh-so-welcome voice to see John Watson and Greg Lestrade beaming at them. It was John who had spoken, and Molly would have rushed over to hug their rescuers except for one thing: Sherlock was still holding tightly to her wrist.

When she gave him an inquiring look, he pulled her closer. “You heard the man, Molly. Kiss me.” Then he leaned down and she tilted her head and their lips met while John and Greg clapped and whistled their approval.


	2. Alternate Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note rating change!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kendrapendragon said: I so love this!
> 
> …but I will forever be mad that you didn’t go smutty! ;)
> 
> And since I don't want her to be forever mad, I wrote this alternate ending. Uh, it's also slightly domme!Molly.

They made it back to their makeshift home without tearing one another’s clothes off…but only barely, and only because Molly was being extra careful of Sherlock’s broken arm. “It’s fine, it’s healing, for God’s sake, Molly, stop babying me!”

She ignored his grouchy words, knowing that they stemmed from the same sexual frustration and eagerness to end said frustration that she was currently feeling. “Sit down,” she ordered, indicating the pile of blankets spread over a mat of woven palm-fronds that made up their bed. His eyes widened a bit at the tone of command in her voice, but she was too busy fussing over his arm to notice.

She gave an approving nod when he did as she’d ordered; with deft, gentle hands she helped him remove his clothing -  trousers and pants and a short-sleeved uniform shirt found in the captain’s carry-on bag and loose enough to go over the makeshift splint she’d cobbled together - and helped him lie back, smoothing a hand over his messy curls as she did so. “Good boy,” she murmured, meaning to tease a bit, but feeling a jolt of pleased surprise down her spine at the way his half-erect cock twitched and swelled. His cheeks flushed an even darker red and she decided to experiment a bit. “Put your free arm behind your head,” she ordered, putting a bit of snap into her voice.

He obeyed with every sign of eagerness, his eyes wide and his mouth partially opened. “Now watch,” she said, then pulled her own clothes off with deliberate slowness: her colorful blouse with the sleeves hacked off above the elbows, her khaki trousers, her sandals, and finally her bra and knickers. Sherlock tracked her every move, unmoving, unspeaking, becoming obviously more and more aroused with each revelation of her flesh. She knew she must look a sight, with her blistered hands and farmer’s tan and blotches of sunburn; her hair was a messy braid and the freckles on her nose must be positively running amok - but he looked at her as if she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and she quietly reveled in the sensation.

He, naturally enough, was as pale and elegant as an Elgin marble; even the broken arm and the abdominal scar from his bullet wound could do nothing to mar his perfection in her eyes, and she was quick to let him know it.

“You really are a sweet boy when you want to be,” she sighed as she leaned down to nip at his throat. She lowered her body and slid her pussy along his cock, coating it with her juices and loving the soft moan he let out at the sensation. “Why can’t you be like this all the time?”

“Because then you wouldn’t have any reason to punish me,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “And there are times, Molly Hooper, when I very much require punishment for my actions.”

“Mmm, yes, but not today,” she replied, reaching between them and giving his cock a squeeze. He moaned even louder that time and gave his hips a little thrust. “Today you deserve a reward. I hope you’re not disappointed?”

“Not in the least,” he rushed to assure her as she finally turned her head to kiss him. His mouth was warm and tasted slightly of banana, and their tongues danced a sultry tango as she continued to work him with her hand. When she felt the precum beading at the tip, she smeared it across her fingers, then sat up and held his gaze she deliberately took those same fingers and slipped them along her folds. She was already more than ready for him, but wanted to see his reaction.

She wasn’t disappointed; his eyes widened and his tongue darted out to touch his lips as she then allowed her fingers to glide wantonly up her body until she was teasing her breasts. He made another one of those delicious hip movements and gave a strangled groan, the arm behind his head twitching as if he longed to reach out for her. She took pity on him, leaning back down so that her breasts were just above his face. He lifted his head and eagerly began to suckle at each nipple in turn, and while he was thus occupied Molly lifted her hips and then lowered herself onto his straining cock.

They both let out deeply satisfied sighs at the sensation, Sherlock’s tongue vibrating against her nipple in an immensely pleasurable way. She began to rock against him, gasping and cooing as his mouth continued to do some very wicked things to her breasts. “You can touch me now,” she said, lowering herself a bit in order to get a better angle against her clit. “Anywhere you like, sweet boy.”

“Oh thank God,” he gasped, moving his mouth up to take hers in a sloppy kiss as he reached between their bodies and slid his thumb over her clit. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this to you, Molly Hooper. No idea at all.”

“Mm, probably not as long as I’ve wanted to do this to you,” she bit out, feeling her breath start to catch as she neared her completion. “No offense, Sherlock, but right now I think I’d just like you to fuck me and save the talking for after.”

“Yes ma’am,” he replied smartly, and just like that she fell completely apart, howling her pleasure to the four winds. Sherlock’s orgasm wasn’t far behind hers, and his strangled cry was nearly as loud as hers.

Or, as a very embarrassed Greg Lestrade and John Watson would later tell them, so it sounded from their vantage point down the beach. “Bloody awful timing on our part,” John would grumble, his face turning pink at the memory. “Next time you two get stranded on a desert island, Mycroft can sodding well come and fetch you back himself!”


End file.
